Ace Combat: Aquila Forever
by Xcom-anders
Summary: The Fall of Ulysses has struck Earth. As the nations of the world struggle to come to grips with the fallout, heroes have come forward to fill the gap. Some of these new heroes make up the Royal Australian Air Force 156th Tactical Fighter Wing; Call sign Aquila. An Ace Combat Infinity fic. Real world/Strangereal blend. New Author's Note.
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own the game; Namco Bandai does. I don't own any of the planes, their respective companies do. I do own some of the character names, unless they seem familiar, in which case, Namco Bandai owns them again.**

Chapter 1: Mako

_1999_

_That was the year…_

_It was the year when Ulysses came from the sky and changed everything, largely for the worse…_

_In one instant, thousands of asteroids made impact against the Earth. The Stonehenge Defense System managed to repel the most critical debris, but that didn't stop the hundreds that still made contact. Tens of millions died, and hundreds of millions were displaced into refue- sorry "Special Economic Zones" all over the world. As bad as some of those could be, at least there was still law and order. _

_Take the South China Sea, for example. Since the impact, several surrounding nations had to up and fold. This presented a prime opportunity for pirates and mercenaries to infest the region. China, Japan, and the U.S. all have their hands full, so that leaves this particular mess up to us…_

* * *

South China Sea

"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! This is the Supply Ship Tau, requesting support immediately!" the panicked ensign screamed into the radio. He braced himself as another explosion rocked the ship. Damnit, why did the captain steer so close to the coastline! He glanced out the window, and watched as the Fishbeds passed over. The ensign had remembered sitting through the presentation during training. Apparently, it was the new strategy of the 21st century pirate. Isolate a ship, launch disabling runs with aircraft, and then send in the quick response teams before reinforcements could be called. If the crew was lucky, they'd be ransomed within a week. If not…

* * *

Captain Bourey shot a look down at the crippled ship below him. Thanks to an intercepted transmission, they had led this lumbering cow to the slaughter. Formerly, he used to be a flight instructor for a country that no longer mattered. After the economy collapsed, instead of being herded towards China with the rest of the rabble, he and a few of his comrades joined up with a few other individuals who came up with a plan. Why live in a slum when you could occasionally jump a sea-lane and make off like a bandit? Thanks to the occasional raid, his former small time militia had evolved into a small army.

"Captain, Headquarters just issued another call. Is the ship ready for boarding, yet?" his number two asked over the radio.

"Tell them soon. It's still moving. Another pass with the rockets should bring it to a halt."

Using rockets to bring down ships was a precarious issue. Though plentiful, it took a well-aimed one to bring the ship to a halt. Too little, and the ship could limp away and call for help. Too much, and the cargo was lost. He eased into his turn, lining up his sights for the next bombardment. This last run should bring that ship to a halt for good. After building up enough altitude, he nosed his plane into a steep dive. Keeping in control despite the insane amount of adrenaline, he gently tilted his plane to level with the seawater, managing to keep it up so it could just skim along the ocean surface. Looking through the viewfinder, he aimed at the aft of the ship. Almost there, he thought to himself.

"Captain, we have to leave, they have reinfo-"*BOOM*

For a brief moment, Bourey lost his focus. When he came to, he almost slammed into the side of the ship. Peeling up, his plane must have just avoided the ship's bridge. Keeping his head on a swivel, he gradually took a swift role call of his men. Chen was on his six, as usual, Tuan and Veasna were still together… where was Sakngea? Almost immediately, he saw the black cloud just a few kilometers away from his position. Straining his eyes, he saw the formation. 1…2…3…4…no…

"Bourey to all units! Abandon the ship, fall into formation, and head immediately back to base! No time to argue!"

* * *

"Five, no, strike that, four new MiGs. Are these guys ever going to run out of planes?"

"Thank the wonders of modern technology for that, 9. Now old Soviet clunkers are as plentiful as paperclips."

"So, what is the plan for today, chief? Elimination or escort?"

"Take a guess."

"Awesome!"

"Alright everyone, wolfpack formation! 2,5,9 establish the perimeter! 4, on me! Break!"

The three escorting Terminators broke from their leader, leaving him and his wingman to close in on the fleeing MiGs. As they gained on their fleeing prey, the lead shot a look towards his number two. Still as focused as ever, he thought with pride. As they closed the distance, both planes let loose with their missiles, shredding two of the MiGs. The survivors broke off, either hoping to save themselves or trying futilely to coordinate another offensive. With a smirk, he and his wingman broke off, picking a partner to tango with.

* * *

Bourey desperately tried to jinx and weave against his opponent, pushing his plane and skills to the max. It was bad enough going up against a superior plane, but if even half the stories were true about this flight lead, he may as well eject right now. This was a man whose callsign had been whispered in every tavern and hanger his crew had frequented. A man who single handedly shot down an entire squadrons-worth of his crew, and had broken the backs of several of his group's rivals. As he dove towards the ocean, he glanced back to see his opponent calmly matching his every move.

I just need to make it to the coast, Bourey thought to himself. I just need to get over land before I can bail out. As he brought his plane to level with the ocean, he realized that there was a shadow crossing over him. Looking up, we saw the plane, barely twenty feet away, flying right over top of him, upside-down. He could see the pilot, looking down at him, giving him the "bird," before peeling away behind him and unloading his cannons. As the guns perforated his craft, Bourey took a moment to pity the next poor soul who would have the misfortune to go up against that man. Too late did he motion towards pulling the eject handle. His plane exploded in a ball of flame, the remnants hurtling down to the ocean.

* * *

Alpha Mike Foxtrot, the pilot thought to himself. As he peeled away from his handiwork, he caught a glimpse of yet another black contrail heading downwards. 4 was never one to waste time.

"Alright, everyone, congratulations on a job well done! 2, have you established contact with that freighter?" the lead asked

"Just did, chief! They send you their thanks, and are requesting that we escort them to Macau. The ship took some hits, but they should be able to make it."

"Back into formation, people. Playtime is over."

The other planes wordlessly complied, and they watched over the ship for the rest of the evening. Eventually, the JASDF found the ship and offered to take it the rest of the way, relieving the hero squadron to return back to base.

* * *

Martin Air Base, Philippines.

"2nd Lt. Wallace Bodie, you are cleared for landing," the control tower announced. The squadron's youngest member landed his plane while the rest of his squad mates waited their turns.

"Man, did you see that maneuver the chief pulled? Smooth," one of the pilots chatted to his buddy.

"Maybe when you grow up, you'll be as talented and intelligent as the boss," his buddy responded.

"1st Lt. Harry Quinn, shut up and make your landing!" Control ordered. Quinn, after checking to see that his radio was off, muttered all the way down as he made his landing.

"1st Lt. Rodney Oswald, try not to mess this one up," came the next order.

"I told you, how was I supposed to know there was a pigeon in my landing gear!" he whined over the comm. Never the less; he acquiesced to his superiors wishes.

The remaining two flights looked out over the lights of the airfield, and the lights from the nearby city of Manila. One of the few things the two leads had in common was that they both enjoyed being airborne at night.

"Captain Dian Mirza, you are ready for landing," control stated. Wordlessly, the lead's wingman prepared to land, leaving the major alone with his thoughts. His squad may not have looked like the most cohesive group in the RAAF, but they were his wingmen. He knew their strengths and weaknesses, and they all put their trust in him. Any good flight lead worth his salt would realize the weight of that responsibility, but with the right group, there was practically no weight at all.

"Major Winston McCurtis, we are ready to receive you. Word of warning, the Colonel wants a word with you," Control warned. Grimacing, Major McCurtis readied his plane for landing as he racked his brains for whatever the base commander was going to yell at him about.

* * *

Martin Air Base, named after a general who helped lead the evacuation of Hong Kong following the Ulysses Disaster. The air base was on loan from the Filipino government, given that their air force was largely un-suited for the extra burden that came with policing the South China Sea for pirates. With China and Japan unable to loan their support, and un-eager to place their trust in mercenaries, they requested support from the Royal Australian Air Force. Despite multiple strikes on the east coast, Australia had slowly been building and expanding its military, particularly the air force, making it the superpower of the southern hemisphere. In the twenty years since the collapse of most of the world order, Australia had become the guard dog of the Pacific. As such, standard recruitment was typically altered to accommodate for the increased numbers.

"So here I am, flying the training plane, and the instructor in the back keeps on yammering about fundamentals. I want to tell the guy, "Buddy, I read that book front and back five times last week," but being the bigger man, I decided to keep my mouth shut," Rodney explained to his squadron at the Rusty Prop, the airbase tavern.

"Which is why you took it upon yourself to fly upside down over the runway," Harry drawled.

"Hey, did I ask for commentary? Didn't think so! So anyways, I'm laughing my ass off while the guy is screaming into the radio, so I decide to right the plane up, and then went for a climb, just to see how high I could take it. I wanted to see if I could break a record, mostly," Rodney continued.

"I don't think records count if you get court marshaled," Wally interjected, meekly.

"Didn't ask you, professor! Moving on, I eventually learn the hard way that I was actually the fifth trainee to use that plane that day, rather then the second, and they hadn't refueled the plane since the last one rode it. So as I'm watching the gauge tick lower and lower, I start to panic. Do I bail out, and spend the rest of my short military career in a hole in the ground, or do I do something desperate? I eventually came to a decision…"

As Rodney rambled on, Dian impatiently drummed her fingers against the bar. He was never this late, not when everything was going well. The operation had been a success; five dead pirates, and an entire shipment of Werner-Noah goods were on their way to China. So why was she so nervous? The colonel never took this long to congratulate them, but when he wanted to chew them out, he'd have called for them all. What was keeping the major?

Just before the clock struck one, the door to the bar opened, and an exhausted Major McCurtis entered the room. Wally was the first on his feet to salute, followed by Dian, Harry, and Rodney. He was the oldest squad member, in addition to the highest ranked. As informal as they could be in the air, on the ground, protocol usually won out.

"C'mon chief. Don't leave us in suspense. What did Col. Bellyacher want to complain about now?" Rodney asked. Their CO, one Col. Breaker, was a hard-ass military lifer, who found himself commanding a squadron of some of the most gifted pilots, yet worst mavericks in the RAAF. He had frequently been in conflict with Major McCurtis, who had done his best to shield his men from the top brass.

"Nothing important. Some reporter from the Osaka Broadcasting Corporation looking for a segment got wind of us and wants to run a story. Normally, the Colonel tries to scare the press off, but in this case, she got wind of our battle record against the Ragtags, and is adamant that we all get interviews," the major explained.

"Um, excuse me, chief, but did you just say, "she?" I mean, for posterity and all," Rodney interrupted.

"Don't get any smart ideas, Lieutenant. She played hardball and convinced the Colonel we could use the exposure. So rest up, get nice and clean tomorrow, and be ready by 0900 sharp. Dismissed!" he barked.

The men groused their way back to the barracks, while Mirza stayed behind with the Major. Taking a seat next to his second in command, McCurtis waited for his subordinate to vent.

"If it is all the same to you, Major, if this is not mandatory, I would prefer to be excused from the meeting, if at all possible," she said, flatly.

"Not interested in being a rock star, are you?" Winston joked.

"Not interested in being celebrated for killing. Those two I shot down didn't bail out. They almost never do," she said, flatly.

"She doesn't want to interview you about your kill count. She wants to interview you about defending the Pacific. How many ships have we saved? How many raids have we driven away? A lot happened these last twenty years, but we still need heroes."

"Then, with all due respect, she can just interview you while I go for a jog," she said, still flatly.

"Unlikely. When she found out about you, you were her top priority," Winston explained.

"Figures. With any luck, I'll catch malaria between now and morning," Dian sighed as she left the table. McCurtis watched as Captain Mirza left the empty tavern, leaving him to turn out all the lights. Truth be told, the Major empathized with his Captain greatly, but service was duty. It had taken months to garner her trust, and he knew that when he pressed the issue enough, she could be made to come around. Before he closed the tavern up, he looked out at the lights of the airfield, and he could not wait for the next time he could get back in the sky.

* * *

Pan Pacific Manila Hotel

"Nagato, what do you mean the equipment is defective?... That was state of the art! They don't just grow on trees!... Oh, now you're sorry! That makes up for the busted equipment!... Hey, hey, look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it… I'm just freaking out. This is the biggest story I've ever gotten the chance to cover, and I don't want some equipment malfunction to mess it all up… You know a guy here?... How late is he open?... I don't care if it is the middle of the night, you get that equipment by shooting time tomorrow!… Well, you should have thought of that before you hauled busted A/V equipment all the way to the Philippines!" and with that, Aiko Shisimi slammed the hotel phone into the receiver.

Falling back in the bed, she wondered how she could possibly get any rest tonight. It had taken a miracle to get clearance to enter Martin, and she wasn't going to let a stupid distraction get in her way! To calm herself, she picked up the dossiers of the five pilots she wanted to meet. Reaching into the folder, she took special notice of the emblem on the front, marked Aquila.

First up, 2nd Lieutenant Wallace G. Bodie; graduate from Sydney University with a degree in avionics. Became a pilot after graduating early. His profile picture showed a red headed, green-eyed young man who looked like he hadn't slept in days. Callsign Yellow 2.

Next, 1st Lieutenant Harry L. Quinn; apparently joined the military to get out of a prison sentence, of which the information in question was redacted. He had brown hair, from what she could tell from the buzz cut, possessed a broken nose, and was tall, standing at six feet two. Callsign Yellow 5.

Following him, 1st Lieutenant Rodney Oswald; his record marked with various demerits and warnings, though he seemed to have calmed down after joining the squadron in question. He had sandy blond hair, blotchy skin, and a minor overbite. Callsign Yellow 9.

Piquing her interest very highly, the squadrons sub-commander, Captain Dian Mirza; apparently one of the hundreds of thousands of refugees who made their way to Australia prior to the collapse of Indonesia, most of her past remained a mystery. She could hardly wait to get started with her. She was striking, with dark brown eyes, tanned skin and sleek black hair. Callsign Yellow 4.

Finally, the squadron commander, Major Winston McCurtis; joined the military after lying about his age, and currently the leading ace of Australia. He had personally assembled his squadron, and always insisted on flying in a five-plane formation. According to reports, he always took special care of his squad mates, and had never lost a single member. He was barely thirty-two, with stark blond hair that looked grey when the lighting was right, and had very kind eyes. Callsign Yellow 13.

**So, what do you think? Feedback and Con-crit is encouraged.**

**Authors note: Sorry to put this here, but something is really starting to bug me. I have a question. If one reads a fic where Mobius one is also Blaze from AC5, or a woman, or related to other protagonists, or what have you, do you complain? No? Didn't think so, because that is how fan fiction is supposed to work. I have stated that Reaper =/= Mobius One, and that should be enough, and yet people continue to bitch about it. If people are just going to keep complaining about a fan fic about a story with already hazy lore, and that is all people want to talk about, and nobody is willing to look past that, then I don't see why I should continue.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Tiger

Martin Air Base

Aiko and Nagato had just arrived outside the main gate of the base. Flashing her press badge, the guard opened the boom gate, allowing the SUV passage inside the facility. Passing the checkpoint, the reporter slowly drove through the base, taking in some of the sights. It wasn't the most state of the art base she had ever driven through, but Aiko could tell that this seemed like a home first, and a military base second.

As she passed by the hangers, she got a good look at the aircraft stationed inside. Though the RAAF typically used F/A-18 Super Hornets, following the modest expansion of the Australian military, they had also come in possession of several new Tornados, F-20 Tigersharks, and Blackhawk helicopters.

"Nagato, where did Breaker say the pilots were going to meet with us?" Aiko asked.

Yawning, Nagato consulted his smartphone, switching between the transcribed call and a map of the base. "Hanger 12, Ms. Shisimi."

As she navigated the base, she occasionally glanced at the various people making their rounds. Some were military police, others were mechanics looking over their crafts, and some were pilots either socializing or exercising. As she made her way to the hanger in question, she saw a large, yellow-tinged AWACS parked outside it. On the side was an emblem, with a yellow eagle on a red and black shield. In the hanger, she saw a Su-37 Terminator peeking out, also tinted yellow in the wings. She had found the squadron she was looking for. Parking next to a jeep, she left the vehicle, leaving Nagato to handle the equipment himself.

Scanning her surroundings, she located two officers chatting by the AWACS. One was the stocky, blonde mustachioed CO in a dress uniform who had arranged her meeting. The other, wearing the customary flight jacket, she instantly recognized as the legendary flight lead. Smoothing her hair, she approached the two men, not waiting for her assistant to catch up. As she walked up, the senior officer cleared his throat.

"Ahem, Major McCurtis, this is Ms. Aiko Shisimi, from the Osaka Broadcasting Corporation. I assume you've told your men to be here?" Col. Breaker asked.

"I did, Colonel. They appear not to be ready yet. She's early, though. Hello, Ms. Shisimi, I'm Winston. Oh, anata ga nihongo de hanasu koto o konomudarou?" he asked.

Aiko, caught off guard with his fluency, fought back a smile. "No need, Major, English will be fine. I did not take you for a bilingual."

"English, Japanese, some Mandarin, and a bit of some Creole languages in Oceania. If you want a real polyglot, talk to Bodie, but I know enough to get by on the job," Winston responded.

"Interesting. But I would rather focus on the "job," if that is all right with you. Tell me, where do you think your men are? I am so looking forward to meeting with them," she insisted.

"Well, last I checked, Quinn and Oswald were playing basketball, Bodie's helping the technicians, and Mirza typically goes on an early morning jog before sunrise. That leaves me to do the paperwork," the Major confessed.

"Would it be at all possible to begin interviewing with your crew immediately?" she insisted. As McCurtis was about to respond, he noticed Mirza, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, making her way from behind the hanger. Immediately, she noticed the reporter, and without skipping a beat, returned from whence she came.

"You know, I think Quinn and Oswald should be finishing up their layups right about now. The court is right by the mess hall, so I presume you can make it there yourself?" Winston asked.

Shisimi insisted that she could find her way, and graciously parted from the two officers, before barking some orders at the hapless assistant who had finally dragged out the equipment from the car. Pretending to go on a stroll, McCurtis made his way behind the hanger, where Mirza was busy stretching. She must have jogged down to Santa Cruz, seeing as that was the only route she could have taken. She usually came back before sun-up, as she never really enjoyed crowds. Or people.

"So, how was the reporter?" she asked as she stretched, barely attempting to sound interested.

"Not bad. You'd probably hate her," he admitted.

"Sorry," she responded, halfway interested in the conversation.

A voice cleared its throat, and both pilots turned to see their commanding officer. Colonel John Breaker was the man in charge of Martin Air Base, putting him on the front line in the fight against piracy. As such, he had access to some of the most experienced combat units in the southern hemisphere. Despite his disposition, he was usually keen to let certain things slide. As long as respect was paid, a little insubordination was negligible. Unless the brass or press was nearby.

"Captain Dian Mirza, would you mind explaining to me why you were unavailable to report to your mandatory appointment with Ms. Shisimi?" he barked.

"I was feeling under the weather, sir, and did not want to get our fine friend from the press ill," Mirza lied.

"Unwell? Maybe you should report to the medical pavilion. I'm sure Dr. Brown will be most interested in your condition," Breaker responded, clearly not buying her response.

"It is my fault, Colonel. She was feeling nervous about meeting the press, so I gave her permission to skip the initial meeting. As soon as she feels more comfortable, I will insist," McCurtis offered.

Breaker snorted. "Of all the units stationed here, you are the only ones who consistently and repeatedly attempt to subvert my authority. Anyone else would have been court-martialed, yet the five of you "rock stars" are basically untouchable while operations are in effect. Speaking of, orders just came down from headquarters. They've located what we believe to be the pirates' central command. A joint mission between the SASR and the RAAF has been ordered."

"Really? You'd think that we'd have UNF support for an operation like this?" McCurtis asked.

"Things are a bit hectic with Eurasia, and that is drawing their attention to other matters. Our brass would prefer that we deal with this issue personally, without having to wait on permission from the Security Council. By this time tomorrow, we will have troops in position to make landings. I trust your men will be ready to launch by then?" Breaker asked.

"As always, sir. What will our priorities be?" McCurtis asked.

"Initially, escorting the attack craft and choppers to their destinations. Afterwards, air superiority. We'll discuss the details later… after Mirza submits to the press," Breaker stated, with an air of finality.

"Sir," responded McCurtis and Mirza as they saluted, though the latter was seething internally. Breaker returned the salute, afterwards wandering off.

"She isn't that bad. I can't promise you'll like her, but could you at least try not to hate her?" McCurtis asked

"Neither my personal history nor our duty is her business. I won't have to hate her if she stays away," snapped Dian. McCurtis clasped her shoulders, holding her in place.

"If you don't want to tell her about your birth family, fine. You have a better family right here. If you don't want to tell her about our missions, that's great. If you want to hear some of the pre-cooked PR BS I've learned to give out, I'll happily tell you. But stuff like this comes with the territory, so you may as well learn to play ball. Do you understand?" he asked. There were very few people Dian had ever learned to put her trust in. From a young age, she had regularly been passed over and abandoned. The Major was one of the few people she would willingly come out of her shell to please.

"Fine, sir. I'll get a shower then talk to that… reporter," she sighed. McCurtis looked at her, before breaking out in a smile and playfully slapping her on the back. Dian smiled slightly before heading down to the rather isolated women's barracks. McCurtis, however, had some reading and planning to catch up on.

* * *

Rusty Prop

"So, Ms. Shisimi, (can I call you miss?) you want to talk to me? Well, let me tell you, I'm flattered, ma'am, that you should start with such a professional pilot such as myself…"

"Lt. Oswald, that is quite enough. I merely wish to get perspectives out of the famed "Yellow" pilots. A biography will be unnecessary. Fortunately for you, if I may be so blunt," Aiko muttered, realizing the words she said after she said them.

"Oh, and what is that supposed to mean? I'll admit, my tenure in flight school may have been… unorthodox, but that is only because I'm fearless, babe! Fearless!" Oswald cried.

"For the record, let it show that 1st Lt. Oswald thinks "fearless" and "stupid" are the same word," groused Quinn, who was sitting next to Oswald in the booth. They were sitting across from Shisimi, with Nagato standing on the floor, filming.

"No one asked for your opinion, you boob cat! Some of us are trying to have a mature conversation! So, anyways, where was I? Oh yeah! As I was saying, just because my toothbrush got real intimate with the bathroom floor during basic doesn't take away from my skill and professionalism as a pilot. If it didn't, McCurtis wouldn't have invited me to join the squadron!" he exclaimed.

"That is very interesting! So tell me, what can you say about the major's selection process," she asked, intently.

"There isn't really a set standard, from what we could tell. For example, the chief found Oswald here rotting in confinement after a particularly stupid stunt. Apparently, there was something in that atrocity of a training flight that really impressed him, so he bailed him out on the condition that he join," Quinn explained.

"OK, wise-ass, if you're going to talk, then tell her how you joined up, reprobate," Oswald snarled.

"I was a smuggler," Quinn stated flatly. "I used to have a sea plane out at New Zealand and ran some cargo for some… less-then-reputable individuals. After a particularly rotten job had gone wrong, I found myself being chased down by half the New Zealand coast guard. I avoided them as long as I could, but then the plane ran out of gas and they had to fish me out of the reef. A few months into my sentence, the Major offered me a deal, and here I am," he explained.

"Very interesting! What about 2nd Lt. Bodie?" Aiko asked.

"Some nerd from Brisbane University. I mean that as a compliment, don't get me wrong. I flat out don't go up without the kid saying my plane is in decent shape," Oswald began.

"The guy started out wanting to design and build aircraft. At first flying was just a hobby. Then he competed in a mock dog-fighting tournament outside of Sydney and caught the Major's eye," Quinn explained.

"Are you saying he recruited him because he won?" Aiko asked.

"Hell no! He got like fourth!" laughed Oswald.

"The Major wasn't looking for placement. Apparently Bodie exhibited a bunch of stuff the major looks for in a fighter pilot, and approached him afterwards for a job," Quinn explained.

Aiko scribbled excitedly on her notepad, trying desperately to hide her glee. If things kept going like this, she could probably convince her bosses to make this an ongoing series. While the rest of the world was preoccupied by the incident over Tokyo, she was in a position where she could tell a decent story. The narrative potential alone cried out for an award.

"What can you two tell me about Captain Mirza?" she asked, still hungry for information. Quinn averted his gaze while Oswald winced.

"Ooooh, I… don't think it is a good idea to talk about someone behind their backs," Oswald shrugged.

"You don't seem at all concerned about doing so about Bodie?" Aiko questioned.

"Yeah, well, that is a different situation. Bodie is a pretty chill guy, but the captain, well…" Oswald, for once, struggled to find his voice.

"She's complicated. We've flown with her for about three years now, and she isn't the easiest person to warm up to. She doesn't talk about herself much, and you just have to learn to be accept it," Quinn shrugged.

"Come on, just a little gossip won't hurt, will it? I'm going to talk to her anyway soon," Aiko pleaded.

"Listen, you seem like a nice girl, so I'll give you some advice; don't push her, she WILL push back," Quinn warned.

"All we know about her is that she's been flying beside the Major the longest, and that she was probably taught by him personally. I don't even know why I'm telling you this," Oswald confessed, shaking his head.

"Oh, come on now! You two make it sound like she will shoot you two out of the sky just for talking behind her back!" Aiko laughed. Both Quinn and Oswald glanced at each other before looking away.

"Lady, Ms. Shisimi, just… don't get your hopes up about cracking Mirza. And if she starts to get mad, just drop the subject," Oswald empathized.

"Always good advice," Captain Dian said as she entered the bar. Both Quinn and Oswald turned in a panic to face her. "Major wants to talk to the both of you about the operation tomorrow, so go," she said, flatly. The two lieutenants quickly obliged, leaving only her, the reporter, and the cameraman. Taking her seat, she stared directly into the reporter's eyes. "So tell me, where do you want to begin?" she asked.

* * *

Pentagon

A middle-aged intelligence officer, flanked by a young aide, made their way through the central hallway. The United States was in roughly the same position as the rest of the world. The west coast, in particular, had been hammered hard by the Impact, and the United States was focusing largely on reconstruction. With most of the military handling domestic issues, the intelligence community had to operate through somewhat more subtle measures. If recent reports were true, however, then the entire system could potentially be compromised.

They found the conference room, where already several grim faced military and intelligence officials were waiting for them. Shooting a glare at his aide, the officer nonetheless prepared for the presentation. As he set up the PowerPoint, his aide passed around packets the officials waiting.

"Mr. Secretary, gentlemen, my name is Lt. Col. Mitchell. I have come to brief you on the updated situation. I recognize some new faces here, so you'll forgive me if I brief them on the matter at hand?" he asked the Secretary. After receiving a nod, the Lt. Colonel continued with the presentation.

"Assembled ladies and gentlemen, if I may, allow me to introduce you all to one of our finest military assets, Colonel Dylan Woods," he began as he brought up a slide. It featured a handsome young man, mid-twenties at least, with fierce blue eyes and a flat expression. He wore a United States Air Force uniform, but most of his summary information had been redacted.

"For those of you who have just had this case brought to your attention, the man you are looking at is a veritable prodigy. Some in our armed forces regard Colonel Woods as the finest military pilot alive. The others who do not, do so because they have never heard of him," Mitchell explained as he clicked through the slides. "After performing with distinction during Operation Persian Crusade, he had been recruited by the CIA to serve as a "special agent" for various missions, largely to compensate for the financial gutting the organization received after the Ulysses Disaster. A lot of what transpired during his service is a mystery, but what the CIA was willing to part with is, quite frankly, shocking," he continued as he flipped through the slides. They featured various warlords and arms dealers, all with large, black X's crossed over them.

"So, what is this, is he some kind of spook "hit-man" for the Langley boys?" Brigadier General Weston asked, flipping though his packet.

"Among other duties, sir. Recon, espionage, as well as "aerial assassinations" are all services that Colonel Woods has specialized in. Although his kill record is classified, I was able to glean that it was somewhere in the triple digits. I've run this by my staff at Beale, and from what we've gathered his individual combat efficiency is roughly equal to an entire combat squadron." The room broke out in mutters as Mitchell continued to flip though the slides.

"Which brings us to the chief issue of concern. Recently, he was sent over to Werner-Noah Enterprises as a consultant. Truthfully, he had been sent in order to keep tabs on any developments within a company that is quickly becoming an N.G.O. superpower not seen since the East India Trading Company. Apparently, while on duty over there, he fell in with an individual by the name of Kacper Cohen, who had been the chief weapons designer for the company. Cohen has recently been laid off from the company, and as of a week ago, has gone underground. Sources say he is involved in an Ilyuli based terrorist organization named "The Sons of Troia." Since Cohen's resignation, Woods has likewise dropped off the radar. We… we are worried he may be compromised," confessed the intelligence officer. The room went silent.

"So… what does this mean for us, Lt. Colonel?" asked Secretary Gordon.

"We can't confirm anything so far, but it would appear that the fastest growing terrorist organization in the world has gained access to one of our greatest assets. He has made no attempt to contact us, and it does not seem that he is being held under duress. We don't know how they are holding sway over him, or what information he has divulged to them, but as it stands, we are in a crisis. The president has yet to be informed, but… conventional wisdom says that we should handle this matter "in house," if we are all in agreement."

The assembled officers and officials all glanced at each other. Some whispering was audible, but in the end, Secretary Gordon decided to speak for the entire room. "What is your recommended course of action?"

"For that, I intend to petition the CIA to release more information about Woods, though some extra pressure would be appreciated, Mr. Secretary. In the meantime, here is some of the other information I've been able to gather.

The next panel showed the side of an F-22 Raptor, with an emblem clearly visible on the side. "One thing that I can guarantee is that when that man is airborne, he is basically untouchable. Thanks in part to his near-mythical status, he was given a call sign to empathize how much of an impossibility such a pilot was. That ribbon? That is called a mobius strip…"

**To clear up potential future confusion; Mobius =/= Reaper. They are two distinct, separate, and independent entities.**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Mako

Reedson-Pretorius Air Base, South Africa

"Full house, Viper, read'em and weep," the young Afrikaner smirked as the older ace threw his cards down in frustration.

"You lousy, self righteous swindler, that's the third full house this past hour! I'm not paying up!" he complained.

"Tch, tch, Bill, what would your mother say about such an attitude? You were dealing, after all," the Afrikaner mockingly scolded.

Fishing in his pockets, the veteran fighter pilot brought out a few crumpled bills, the last of his spending money for the week. Hopefully, that job in the West Indies would pay for itself. Until then, no ice cream for the new rookie or Omega. The rest of the players had already folded, leaving that smug blonde asswipe with the entire pot.

"Thank you, Bill! I know I'll be seeing a happy lady tonight! Which reminds me, how's the ex-wife? What her name again?" the man said, grinning.

"Nunya," the veteran stated.

"Nunya? You have some strange naming conventions down under, heh?"

"It's short for "Nunya damn business," merc!" he growled.

"Merc? Is that the best you can do? Pirate, merc, privateer, different titles for the same business. Only difference is I don't have to babysit. How many rookies did Goodfellow drive into the ground since last, anyway?" the blonde mercenary asked again, sincerely.

"Hmmm… enough. The only guy who walked away is "King Bailout." Between him and Bronco, I'm just waiting to see who gets blasted out of the sky first, so I don't have to worry about who'll take over anymore," Viper groused.

"Wait, so it's just the three of you? Geez, Goodfellow must be beating you guys like rented mules!" the merc laughed.

"Eh, we got some new kid for the next job. Some guy who just got out of the academy at San Diego. Omega says he's legit, but coming from him don't really mean much. I figure I'll get a good look at him when I head out tomorrow. Get this; his call sign is the Grim Reaper. Looks like bad street art, if you ask me," Viper confided in his poker buddy.

"Ohhh, scary! What is it with these greenhorns feeling they have to overcompensate on the call signs? Come to think of it, you trying to compensate for anything, "Viper," hmm?" the mercenary said as he tilted his head, coyly.

"Ahh, shaddup! Like you're one to talk," Viper said as he picked his jacket off his seat. "I got a long trans-Atlantic flight to look forward to tomorrow, so I'm afraid I'll have to part ways. Shoot you down later, Larry," he said as he left.

"Try me, Bill!" Larry called out as his last poker buddy left. Leaning back, he counted up his earnings. From the looks of it, it was five hundred rand, two hundred Euros, ninety dollars, and a few bills he didn't know the name of. Not bad for night at the mess hall. He chuckled as he slipped a card from his flight suit sleeve. And to think they hadn't suspected a thing!

Reedson-Pretorious Air Base was a recently established military instillation, and it still had the shine to show for it. After the Ulysses Disaster, sectarian conflicts had erupted throughout the African continent, which like the rest of the world was typically driven by the lack of readily available resources. South Africa, having miraculously survived the disaster intact, desperately tried to impose order on its frontier. Long story short, the militias were subjugated, which was followed by the downsizing of the South African Defense Force, which lead the base to becoming appropriated by private contractors.

As he shuffled his cards, he looked around the mess hall. Most of the staff had either gone to bed or went out to eat. Sadly putting his deck back in its case, he went out to find his buddy. The SAAF had been kind to him, sure, but there was little good his talents could do working for the government, not with the recent demilitarization policies. Thankfully, a local PMC was hiring, and he found himself a very lucrative career. He also found himself paired up with an Israeli pilot who had seen his fair share of action in the skirmishes of the Middle East.

He felt something vibrate in his jacket pocket. Pulling out his phone, he checked the ID. Segal, Levi. Nice to know he cared! As he flipped open his phone, he saw that he had eight missed messages. Weird, since when was Levi so clingy?

"Yo, buddy," he said as he finally called back.

"Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to call you for the last hour!" the voice screamed into the end.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm detecting some hostility here. You know Thursday is poker night. What gives?" Larry asked.

"What gives? What! Gives! I… look; I'll start from the beginning. You remember Mozambique?" his wingman started.

"Mozam… oh yeah! Lots of anti-air, radar jamming, and those foreign fighters from… wherever… why?"

"You remember that creepy-ass hot shot that briefed us before the mission?"

"The Yank? The one who looked like a college kid? Yeah, what about him?"

"I just ran into him skulking around the base. He was talking to the commander, and whatever it was, it was freaking him out."

"What, the Yank?"

"No, the commander! I've never seen him so nervous! Next thing I know, he orders us to pack up and head out for a new job. We're supposed to clear out of here in a week!"

Larry looked up from his phone and gazed out at the sleepy base that he had called home for the past few years. He wasn't sentimental, but he couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness.

"So is that it?"

"No. Apparently he recognized me and came over to talk. We chatted for a bit, but the gist is that he asked if he could "rent us" for another special mission."

"After Mozambique? No way in hell! I still have nightmares about that damn cesspit!"

"I was about to tell him that, but he pulled out a check. Larry, you know I don't like to make things up. That check… had a whole lot of zeros. I don't know where he got it or who he's working for, but this guy is part of something big. You interested?"

1st Lt. Larry Foulke ran his hand down his face. He was a mercenary, after all. He wouldn't have signed up in the first place if he could settle for a quiet desk job. But as much as he and Segal loved to scrap, that spook was not someone he cared to associate with. Still, it wasn't like he had ever left them hanging.

"Tell me where he's staying. I'll talk with him myself. Whatever he needs Galm team for, I'm sure it can't be kosher, if you'll pardon the expression."

"Thanks, Pixy. I'm going to help feed the Eagles. When you go to talk, I'll come with. No need either of us has to deal with that guy alone. Cipher out."

* * *

West hanger, Martin Air Base

It was early in the morning as Major McCurtis looked out over the airfield. Abuzz with activity, the tarmac was filled with dozens of planes and men. Several of the Australian Special Air Service Regiment had assembled at the airbase to prepare for the invasion.

Intel had pinpointed the pirates advance base on the western Malaysian Island, near a town that had been called Sibu. Apparently, they had set up a functional airbase in addition to fortifying their position. The plan would proceed as thus; McCurtis and the other squadrons would fly support for the attack aircraft as they pounded the hell out of the pirates defensive lines. While regrouping after the initial bombardment, the first contingents of the SASR would make their landing, by boat, chopper, and parachute. They would disrupt communications and troop movements while the attack aircraft refueled and rearmed. Meanwhile, McCurtis and the other squadrons would engage in any aerial opposition stupid enough to pop its head out.

As the noise went on outside the hanger, he took a moment to admire the conditioning on his plane. The Sukhoi-37 was designed as a prototype for the Russian Air Force. To hear most officials tell the story, it was an outdated super-fighter, with no place in modern combat. McCurtis wasn't one of those officials. To him, he saw a fighter with extreme potential as an air superiority asset, a weapons platform, and as a forward attack squadron. In some ways, this obsolete fighter was perfect for his little team of misfits. That, and it was fairly cheap for a super-fighter.

"Admiring the paint job again, eh," a voice called from behind him. McCurtis turned to see a burley, bushy-bearded, and boisterous bruiser of a man inviting himself in his hanger. McCurtis smiled, and promptly went to clasp the hand of one of his closest friends outside his squadron. Master Sergeant Jon "Croc" Waylon was a fifteen-year veteran in the SASR. It wasn't usually seen as proper for an enlisted man to have such a close friendship with an officer of a completely different branch, but neither of them thought much of propriety.

"Waylon, how've you been? Still working out?" McCurtis said as he pried his grip from the other man's hand.

"Gotta stay in shape. Still sitting on your ass?" Waylon joked.

"Hey, unless you don't want to walk into Hell on a red carpet, I'd watch the wisecracks," McCurtis mock-scolded. The two friends shared a laugh.

The door reopened, and 2nd Lt. Wally Bodie entered the hanger.

"Just checking the maintanence, major. I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting company," the young officer said as he looked at the operator.

"Don't mind him, Bodie, he's an old friend. Jon, this is Bodie, the brains of the Aquila Squad," McCurtis said as he introduced the two. Bodie nervously shook Waylon's hand, who didn't go out of his way to make it gentle for the kid.

"Brains, huh? I'm sure Mirza will take that statement well," Waylon cautioned.

"I'm sure she will keep her pride in check. Bodie, how do the planes look?" McCurtis asked.

"All green from this angle. By the way, Breaker sent me to tell you about some unusual weather patterns over the target area. Apparently we'll be flying into a surprise tropical storm," Bodie warned.

The Major furrowed his brow. Rain was another complication that any pilot would have trained for, but it would've been nice to get a little more forewarning then this.

"Fair enough. You've all trained for this. Hope your mother packed your rain slicker, Waylon."

"Nah, but yours did. Let's just say that when this is all over, you'll be calling me daddy, too," Waylon said as he ruffled McCurtis's hair. They both shared a laugh as Waylon left to rejoin his men.

"I've heard about that Master Sergeant. He's… quite the character," Bodie replied.

"That he is, but don't let the goofiness fool you. He's someone you'd hate to see staring you down the barrel of a gun. How's the rest of the crew?"

"Captain Mirza should be on her way now, with Quinn and Rodney not far behind. Looks like half the base is getting ready for this operation. Even that reporter lady is going with," Bodie stated.

"Aiko? Where?"

"She talked her way onto the AWACS with the Colonel. She's going to get a front row seat on how to run a counterterrorist operation, to hear Breaker say it. Personally, I think he's enjoying the lime-light a little too much," Bodie admitted.

"Still don't see the appeal," Captain Mirza said as she entered the hanger.

"Dian! How'd the interview go?" McCurtis asked, pleasantly.

"It went well."

"What did you talk about?" probed McCurtis.

"…"

"…Damnit, Mirza."

"I told the woman, no personal questions. "Where are you originally from?" "Are there any obstacles towards women in the Air Force?" "Do you have any advice to someone who wants do be a fighter pilot?" "Are you and the Major in a relationship?" and on and on she prattled," Mirza groused.

"Now listen, Captain, I explained this to you yeste… wait, she actually asked that last one?"

"She was getting there, I'm sure," Mirza said, dismissively. As she climbed up the ladder to her platform, McCurtis pinched the bridge of his nose. She was the best wingman he had ever flown with, bar none, but it was agonizing seeing her limit her own potential growth due to her attitude. It was a miracle she was able to make captain, and even then a large part of that had to do with some heavy duty pleading on his end to the Colonel.

"Um, sir, we really need to run some pre-flight checks, if that is alright," Bodie spoke up. In the next thirty minutes, the squad had all assembled, received a brief listing of their targets for the mission, and ran through the final checks on their planes. Soon, the hanger doors opened, revealing a mostly cleared runway. One by one, the planes made their ascent. As they grouped into formation, the planes turned southeast to meet the enemy. Yellow Squadron was on the move.

AWACS Black Kite, Martin Air Base

* * *

Colonel Gerald Breaker looked over the flight console of his plane. Though he would not be flying it, he always made sure that everything was in order before takeoff. It wasn't that he didn't trust the flight crew to handle such matters themselves, but once upon a time, he used to be a pilot as well.

Heading back to the operations room, he looked at the rest of the crew as they took their seats. Amongst the plane's new passengers were Ms. Shisimi and Nagato, her assistant. After a particularly disastrous interview with the Dian, the reporter strong-armed her way into the operation, where she aimed to observe the military action taken against the pirates. Although he wasn't interesting in turning into a carnival ride, Shisimi proved to be quite knowledgeable about aerial support logistics, and promised he would have final say into what made the cut into her report.

"So, where did you learn so much about this kind of thing, anyway?" Breaker had asked her when they boarded the plane. She explained that her brother and an old boyfriend where both members of the JASDF, which had helped spark her interest in the subject matter. After deciding that she would be tolerable, for a civilian, Breaker allowed her and her lackey a ride near the back, after making them swear profusely not to interfere with the proceeding.

"Attention all units, this is King Hawk. All combat units, confirm your positions," Breaker said as he sat at his position. Looking at his monitor, he could see the various beacons activate. In total, there were eight landing ships arriving to support the invasion. Some of them were reconfigured to support helicopters landing and taking off. Supporting them were two frigates, to help clear a landing for the beach, and a minesweeper, for obvious reasons.

Then there were the planes. In additions to the punk-rockers, they were supported by roughly twenty brand new F-20 Tigersharks, which the Australian government rescued from the prototype pages, along with a dozen Tornado attack craft. The Tigersharks were brought to intercept and pinpoint any funny business the enemy might be considering throwing at them, while the Tornados were brought to clear out any potential rough patches the troopers could run into. Finally, a few C-17's were flying at high altitude with the AWACS, filled with some of the country's toughest soldiers. To think, the entire operation would take place with an entire Air Force worth of hand-me-downs.

The plan was simple; a multi-faceted attack against the pirates would allow them to quickly establish a beachhead. While anticipating a rush against the initial landing forces, the choppers would proceed forward, dropping off more SASR while providing close support for the men on the ground. Command empathized mobility in pressing forward with the offensive; never staying in a position too long while simultaneously rolling over any outpost the pirates had set up. While all this was proceeding, several more members would parachute in to flank the rear of the base. After locating and verifying the pirate commander, they would capture him and secure the base while the rest of the militia was expected to fold after extended combat.

The plan was intricately detailed, meaning that all matter of hell could break out, leaving hundreds of the best Aussie soldiers up the creek in a malestorm. Already, a surprise storm was beginning to cause issues. This was why the rock-stars would not be sitting back at the base. Whatever issue arose from the coming campaign, McCurtis and his misfits were the troubleshooters that he had learned to depend on. God help him if he ever had to admit it.

* * *

Sibu, Malaysia.

The rain had started to pour in the early morning, and had only gotten more intense as the day dragged on. As it did, "General" Phan looked out over his encampment. Caught off guard by the monsoon, his ground crew was working hard to ensure that the remaining MiG's were in fighting condition. A losing battle, as recent events had gotten to the point where every sortie ended up costing him more men, and more importantly more planes.

Had it not been for their benefactors in the east, the South China Sea would have never become the boon it had been for Phan and his men. He remembered the first day he joined up with the pirates, how they had consisted of proud military men who at first used their expertise to benefit their families and punish the capitalists who would sooner see them starve or rot in a camp. As the years ran on, and the experienced pilots became fewer and fewer, he found himself looking at a handful of recruits who could barely send up a plane, much less land.

After Bourey failed to return, Phan realized it was only a matter of time before either the UN or some rival power would come and wipe his group from the map. As he sat in his office, he began wondering whether or not he could find a big enough clean white sheet to surrender. Currently, if his only choices were international prison or a bullet in his skull, he would gladly choose international prison. At least then he would have three square meals on a daily basis.

As he looked out his makeshift office window, seeing the smattering of anti-air vehicles that his men were able to scrounge up, he realized that something in his desk was buzzing. Strange, the only thing that could do that would be…

He flung open the drawer, brusquely knocking aside papers and pencils until he found the phone underneath. When he first met his benefactors, they had given him the phone. They had told him should he ever find himself in trouble, he would only have to wait for a signal.

"Hello? Hello! Is this…"

"Yes. I take it you have received reports about the Australian led attacks? We have learned that they will be leading a significant task force against your position this afternoon. How far along are your defenses?" the voice over the line asked, in heavily accented Indonesian.

Phan looked back out the window. One of the technicals had gotten itself stuck in the mud, and it was kicking mud up everywhere as five gunman tried to push it out.

"I have three thousand men ready to fight, and another thousand in reserve at the base," the colonel confessed.

"And how many fighter jets?" the voice grilled.

"…Ten MiGs."

"…Good enough. I request that every man capable of piloting those craft get in the air as soon as possible," the voice ordered.

"But, sir, those are the only craft we have left! The Australians will have us outnumbered, and we cannot afford…"

"To lose the planes we have supplied you with? Know your place, "General." The only reason your little band has survived this long is because it benefits us in the end. If you want to prove your value to us, you will engage the Australian military and you will hold!" the voice over the line threatened.

"But, sir, we can't hope to win! What will happen if the Yellow Squad appears over the battlefield? My men will panic! We can't hope to hold them!"

"Thinking of abandoning us? Hoping to strike a deal with the UN after you are captured?" the voice intoned. Phan was silent, his sweat having nothing to do with the drafty office.

"I can't say that I blame you, it certainly seems hopeless from your angle. Nevertheless, my superiors have seen fit that you are worth… "intervening" for," the voice confided.

"Intervene? You mean you'll actually…"

"We have several fighters closing in as we speak. Have yours focus on the choppers and landing craft and leave the dog-fighting to us," and with that the line went dead.

* * *

Unknown

As the man hung up the phone, he looked at the control center. It was a long hallway of monitors filled with various readings, analyses, and cameras of the murky waters outside. He strolled down the corridor, pacing around the bridge of the craft. As he did, he tapped one of his men on the shoulder.

"What is the condition of the UCAVs?"

"All three are armed and fully operational."

"Missiles?"

"Sixteen in total, all armed for burst."

The man nodded, and proceeded to walk away.

"Um… sir," the ensign found the nerve to call up. His CO turned back to face him. "Are… are you sure about this. If this goes through, then this will mean…"

"I'm aware, ensign. Attention, all hands on deck!" he said abruptly. Everyone turned from their duties towards the CO. "Our mission is of the utmost importance to our cause! This is more then just helping some marginal allies on the other side of the world, this is about making a statement to those who believe they are in power! However, I can understand why some of you are a little cautious about enacting what is essentially a declaration of war. To that end, I have only this to say; I've just received new orders from Command this morning. It states that they are not ready to reveal themselves to the world just yet. We cannot afford witnesses to our capabilities, and as such, all hostile forces have been slated to be destroyed. No survivors."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Goblin

**Word of warning, this chapter is going to jump around a lot. After this, it won't happen again… for a while.**

South China Sea; HMAS Al-Faw

In the distance, a plume of water erupted nearly two kilometers away. Looking through his binoculars, the officer confirmed that the enemy gunboat had been sunk. Motioning such to the bridge, he looked around the sea to watch the large task force of landing ships begin to off-load several Zodiac rafts as they sped towards the beach head. Several choppers nearby also flew past, either off-loading their troops or providing cover for the rest of the men making their landings. Through the rainstorm, he could make out the distinctive roar of several jets overhead, flying southwards over the island ahead. The officer on deck breathed a sigh of relief as the radio chatter indicated that the first wave had already pushed back the sparse resistance facing them, and the men were en route towards Sihu.

* * *

Airspace above Sihu

McCurtis swiveled his head behind him to see the three lumbering transports on his six. They were approximately fifteen miles away from the drop-off point, in which case several of Her Majesties finest would disembark into the wet jungle below, engage with the main base of operations, and hopefully detain the pirate commander.

On his right side were 4 and 2, while 5 and 9 were on his left. Perfect V-shape formation. Breaker was over the air, continually marking course corrections and altitude changes in order to accommodate for the rough weather.

"Orion 1, prepare to have your men disembark," Breaker said over the comm. In his mind, 13 could see the ends of the planes opening up. "Go, go, go!" Breaker called out. Man by man, the soldiers jumped, not pulling their cords until the last possible moment.

"Breaker, what is the news on the landing force?" 13 asked.

"All groups proceeding as expected, flight leader. Proceed with air superiority upon jump completion."

"Where are the enemy fighters, sir?" 13 asked.

"A large flight just took off at low altitude, but the task force air defense has already gone in to intercept. …Sorry to disappoint you," Breaker decided to add.

9 groaned in frustration. "Ain't no fun in blowing up a bunch of ground targets!" he complained.

"Yellow 9, get the hell off this channel!" Breaker growled. "Sorry hotshots, looks like you'll have to put up babysi… hang on…" the colonel broke off his report.

"Yellow Squadron, we have reports of unknown aircraft entering the vicinity. Prepare to intercept!" the colonel barked.

Looking at his radar, 13 noticed several arrows approaching them from the east. They were way too many and flying too fast to be lost. "Yellow Squad, on me!" 13 called needlessly, as his wingmen remained by his side as he turned. Through the storm, he could scarcely make out eight dark shapes against the rain and clouds. As he squinted, alarms went off in his canopy. "All Yellow Squad, break formation. Unknown aircraft are hostile, repeat, hostile!"

As the formation broke, 13 immediately buckled down and lifted his craft upwards, rolling his craft to avoid contact with the missile. As he did, he got a better look at the crafts ahead. They were boxy, rectangular-shaped, completely in black. _Mig-31s. Foxhounds, _13 thought.

"Everyone, listen up! These aren't the usual pirates we've been dealing with! Stay close to the transports and do not let them get a bead on you!" As he said this, two of the Foxhounds broke off from their formation and promptly began to pursue 13.

* * *

Unknown

The commander waited patiently by the monitors as they viewed the battles progress. As expected, the fighter escorts had made short work of the hastily sortied Fishbeds sent in to disrupt the landing. Radio chatter indicated that the coordinated assault was causing their allies to buckle.

"Sir, Schwarze squadron has engaged with the enemy's forward position," an ensign informed him. The commander just snorted. Mercenary scum. They had arrived late, and they had only engaged the transports after they played their role in the invasion. If Zubov had the gall to demand additional "professional expenses," he was going to be unpleasantly surprised. Then again, his paycheck wasn't his primary concern, but the state of their ally Phan. At first glance, he was just a hyper-aggressive, over-ambitious, petty warlord, but his superiors were insistent that Phan remain "on the board" for the near future.

Once again he looked at the monitors, and sighed resignedly. He had no issue with these men, but a mission was a mission. Why be a soldier if one could not accept the necessary evils that came with combat?

"Men, it is time. Raise the Leviathan."

* * *

Sihu Air Base

Master Sgt. "Croc" had finally positioned himself and his men right outside the airbase. From his current position, he could see not only the now empty hangers, but also the main office. Within the perimeter were nearly dozens of guerilla fighters, some leaving to engage with the landing force, while others stood guard over the facilities.

"Cutty, get up here," he whispered behind him. Behind him, a baby-faced young soldier managed to crawl up.

"Sarge?"

"Are Wintergreen and Wilson's groups in position?"

"Yes, sir. On you order,"

Croc began flashing a toothy smile as he brought out the detonator. No matter how old you got, a part of you never outgrew fireworks. He pressed the button, and the explosives wired to a fuel storage tank went off. As the tower of flame rose up against the rainstorm, the SASR immediately began their attack.

* * *

Airspace above Sihu

"Fox two, Fox two!" 9 cried as he launched a missile at a Foxhound. One high G turn later and the missile was knocked off course. _Damnit, too fast, _9 growled internally. He shouldn't have been surprised. Foxhounds were designed to run down high-speed bombers and recon craft. His only advantage was that they relied heavily on hit and run tactics, and weren't that hot in close quarters. However, it seemed fairly obvious that _they _weren't the intended targets. The C-17s were easy prey for the MiGs, though 13 was doing his damnedest to keep those pilots from walking home. Despite what the Terminators lacked in speed, 13 used his aircrafts abilities to their fullest, displaying a combination of maneuverability and precision that could only be described as "world class." As he weaved through the transport formation, his cannons occasionally spat out lead, driving away the MiGs from any position to attack. 2 had managed to escape the kill zone of one of his pursuers, and 5 was in the middle of running closing in on two other fighters that had been caught off guard. That only left…

Immediately, his warning signs were going off. For a split second, he turned his head behind him, realizing too late that one of the bastards had gotten the jump on him. Immediately, he prepared to roll his way out, but the other pilot had immediately launched one of his missiles. As he rolled, the missile refused to lose course. In the space of a tenth of a second, time seemed to wind down to a crawl. 9 could feel the sweat on his face, the lump in his throat, and the tears in his eyes with horrifying, undeniable awareness. As he watched the missile close in on him, bullets began ripping through the fighter from below. An engine erupted, sending his persuader hurtling to the ground below.

Instantly, he found his brain again and shot off some flares, deflecting the missile just before it got intimate with his exhaust. Finally exhaling, he took a sweet gulp of precious O2 from his mask before noticing another plane pull up along side him.

"9, get your crap together and focus!" 4 berated angrily, before peeling off to pursue yet another hapless victim. Wiping his eyes, 9 thanked his lucky stars that, for better or worse, that woman was on his side.

* * *

South China Sea

By the time the minesweeper had finally picked up the signals below, it was already too late. Rising out of the sea like something from Melville's worst nightmare, a massive, sleek submarine rose from the sea. Next to the frigate, it was twice the length of the much smaller ship. A hatch opened in the front, and three UCAV drones immediately launched out. The caught off guard by the sudden arrival of the behemoth, the other ships immediately let loose with a barrage of fire, both in the air and towards the ship. As the UCAV's danced around the skies, the sub stood by immobile as it readied its attack.

* * *

Airspace above Sihu

"Yellow 13, do you read me? Come in Yellow 13!" Breaker barked over the radio. After diving into another role, 13 had pitched his nose up, allowing for the other two pursuers to speed past him before leveling his craft and launching two separate QAAMs against them. One managed to realize his predicament in time to have the missile connect with their wing, while the other plane had managed to launch some flares and pull another high-G turn to avoid his comrades predicament. _Not bad, flight lead_, 13 thought to himself.

"Yellow 13, we've just received word from the rest of the landing force! They are under attack from unknown hostiles! They are requesting immediate support!" Breaker barked through the comm. For an instant, 13 took a moment to ascertain the current battle plan. Two hostile bogeys were splashed, and the other members of the hostile flight were beginning to fly a little more defensively, though his squadron was still outnumbered against several very dangerous enemies. As he was thinking, another voice came over the radio. "2, on me, we are disengaging," 4 called over the radio. Immediately, two Terminators broke off from the fight, speeding away from the furball. _Damnit Mirza_, 13 gritted to himself, _those Foxhounds will run you down before you even hit the coast._

"9,5, cover 4 and 2 while they disengage! Leave the transports to me!" he ordered.

"Sir!" both his subordinates answered. As they broke of his formation, 13 glanced around him to see that none of the Foxhounds were breaking off to pursue the rest of his squadron. Cursing his call internally, McCurtis proceeded to fly as close to the other planes as possible. _What is with these guys? I've never seen pilots go through so much trouble to shoot down a bunch of empty transports? Either these pilots really want to down a bunch of empty planes or… they want nothing to do with whatever is happening on the coast…_

* * *

Leviathan

The commander stood on the command deck, finally able to glance at the viewing screen in front of him. Functioning as a window, it provided a real time screening over the battle currently taking place just outside the sub. The three Cormorants were engaging with an equal number of F-20's, and from what the commander was seeing; the programmers must have outdone themselves. Able to read into any of the movements the pilots put into their flights, the Cormorants matched the Tigersharks for every dive and climb. Clearly, his superior would be thrilled with the progress demonstrated in active combat.

"Sir, weapons systems are online," an ensign called out.

"Proceed."

In short order, the Cormorants began systematically dispatching the Tigersharks. One by one, each any every plane began to fall into the ocean. Though the commander gave no outward display of emotion, internally, he was seething. However necessary as he convinced himself the cause was, treating soldiers like lab rats was something he was going to have to answer for, win or lose, in this life or the next. At this point, all the ships had begun focusing what heavy guns they had on their sub. He could feel the dulled impacts begin to permeate to the command bridge.

"Lieutenant, ready the Nimbus weapons."

* * *

South China Sea.

It had been a risky call, but 4 needed to act decisively. The transports, at that juncture, were expendable after playing their role. Though 13 made it a point to overvalue the lives of his fellow soldiers, a handful of pilots and crew did not measure up to the fleet ahead. A few "dear john" letters was nothing compared to a whole fleets worth of sailors.

As she approached, she saw a handful of other planes beginning dive-bombings towards another target. When she looked down, she could scarcely believe her eyes. It looked like the biggest submarine she had ever seen. The AA fire practically lit up the sky as fighter after fighter exploded into a ball of flame. As she approached, a trail of smoke shot from the sub. _Cruise missile, _4 thought to herself. However, the trail seemed to lead somewhere over the landing ships. Then it detonated. In her horror, 4 could only watch as a huge burst cleared the airspace of all nearby craft, and could only helplessly watch as the secondary explosion rocked the fleet below. Whatever that weapon was, it had the capacity to murder thousands of people.

"2, are you still on me?" she barked into her radio piece.

"Yes, captain!"

"I don't think our load outs are capable of scratching that thing. But maybe the Tornados do. Get in contact with the pilots over the coast and radio them over here!" she said as she began her dive.

"Captain, what are you doing?!" 2 screamed.

"Seeing just how dangerous that thing really is."

* * *

Leviathan

"Commander, a lone fighter is approaching the submarine!"

Looking at the monitor, the commanders previous military training began to kick in. Aircraft, Soviet-made, high performance. Sukhoi-37. Designated Terminator. Prototype, discontinued after the introduction of the Su-35S. Hard to find outside Russia, with only one possible exception.

"Gentlemen, what we are facing is a pilot of the Aquila Squadron, one of the Yellows. Do not let his reputation scare you, he is just another pilot. Blast him out of the sky!"

Immediately, all the AA batteries focused their attention towards the fighter, who proceeded to maneuver around the barrage. Most modern pilots could avoid stationary ground fire, but from the low altitude the pilot was demonstrating, it appeared that he was making a deliberate mockery of their sub. Eventually, pride began to win out.

Lieutenant, order the Cormorants to teach that show-boat a lesson."

Immediately, the drones that had been hanging back proceeded to target and engage the Terminator.

* * *

Sihu Air Base.

A door was kicked open. "Nothing, Sarge. Moving to the next building."

"Make it quick, boys, I don't want to be stuck here when they figure out what's happening," Croc ordered. For all their training and skill, they were just soldiers, not superheroes. With enough numbers, even they could be overwhelmed. Therefore, it was integral that they locate and detain whoever the little devil leading this operation was.

He briefly glanced around the enemy camp. Basic military setup; barracks, garages, hangers, mess area. As the other soldiers managed to sweep through the camp, several scouts had overtaken some of the watchtowers to keep of with the enemy movements. Most recently was a bunch of chatter regarding several strange lights and noises in the distance, though it was hard to tell through the rain. As it stood, the scouts estimated that they had another fifteen minutes before another enemy group returned to resupply.

As he stepped over the body of a guerilla, he realized that his men had failed to properly inspect what appeared to be a tool shed. Beckoning Cutty and another soldier named Pierce to cover him; he gingerly approached the small building and pulled out a chunk of undetonated plastic explosives. Covering the door hinges, he stood to the side while Pierce readied a flash grenade.

"On three…one…two…*click*"

As the explosives went off, he could make out the sound of an assault rifle being fired from within. Pierce lobbed in the grenade, and after the explosion, a small middle-aged Vietnamese man wearing a military jacket crawled from the building, clutching his ears. Immediately setting themselves on him, Cutty bound the man's hands in plastic.

"Golden, this is Salt team! We have obtained the package, requesting retrieval," Croc spoke over the radio. "Be warned, the area has not been pacified, so you will be coming in hot. Don't leave us hanging!" As he said this, he could hear the sound of lumbering aircraft pass over him.

* * *

Airspace over Sihu

13 afforded himself a sigh of relief after the remaining Foxhounds disengaged from the transports. As he did, 5 and 9 promptly got behind him, having helped drive them off.

"So, you want us to run'em down, boss?" 5 asked.

"That's a negative, we can't outrun them and the others need our help. The transports can take care of themselves from this point forward, right now we need to head to the fleet."

* * *

Leviathan

_Remarkable… absolutely astounding,_ the commander couldn't help but admire as the flaming remains of the last Cormorant crashed right into the water. Whoever was flying that plane understood things about flying that most pilots could never fathom. While the first pilots the Cormorants had engaged with flew almost completely by the book, this fighter pilot understood how to utilize _chaos._ This pilot took risks, risks that no sane man would ever entertain. He baited, he dodged at the last possible moment, and he gambled with his own life like an addict with someone else's money. There was no way he was prepared to waste an entire Nimbus barrage just to take out one plane, but this pilot was making it more and more necessary to commit the resources, and even then, he wondered if that would be enough. In all earnestness, this pilot was almost as terrifying as…

"Commander, additional craft on radar, three others!" another ensign called out.

So, the gang was all here. The mad pilot, the one hanging back, and the rest of them. They had Yellow Squadron right where they wanted them. _Watch and learn, Zubov._

"Men! Prepare Nimbus Barrage!"

* * *

Above the South China Sea.

As 13 entered the battlefield, he saw six different streams of smoke launch from the submarine.

"Winston! Climb to 5000 meters!" 4 cried over the radio. She had never, under any circumstance, breeched protocol while in the air. "You heard her! Climb!" he screamed at his wingmates. 5 thought over what he had just heard. 4 using the first name basis during flight and the Major screaming. Whatever was about to happen, he was not going to enjoy it. Just as he got out of range, a massive ball of light appeared above him, followed by an explosion that sent all his instruments into a mad spin. Just as he thought his plane couldn't take any more, the explosion abated and he breathed a sigh of relief. Bailing out into the water wasn't any fun.

As he checked to see if his plane was all right, 13 had already pulled up next to him.

"All planes, fall into formation. We're gonna go repay the favor."

* * *

Leviathan

The commander watched incredulously as the planes all lined up in a single V-shaped formation and began diving towards the command bridge of the sub.

"Everyone, brace for impact," he ordered. No sooner did his men comply then the five planes let loose with their cannons, peppering the sub with machine gun fire. Any other craft would have been shredded from the impact, but this sub was sturdier then anything else in the water. However, most of the AA placements had been disabled, but those would've been useless compared to fighters like this.

"Sir, picking up additional fighters approaching from low altitude!" an ensign screamed.

Only now did the commander realize what was about to happen. These fighters had no ambition to destroy the sub. They had just been clearing the way for their heavy attack craft to bombard them with impunity. Before he could even give the order, several flights of Tornado aircraft streaked past the bridged, while dropping their bomblets across the length of the ship. Sturdy as it was, there was only so much abuse the sub could take before it broke to shreds. Already, alerts were going off all over the ship, with calls of flooding and system shutdowns being enacted.

"Sir, we need to submerge immediately!" the lieutenant cried as he juggled with the damage control.

"Not yet. Do we still have the capacity to launch burst missiles?" he requested, trying to remain calm.

"Launching mechanism is reporting damage, but we may be able to fire off three more."

"One should be enough. Fire at the emergency coordinates."

"Sir, that would mean…"

I will take full responsibility, sailor, now LAUNCH!" he barked.

Wordlessly, the lieutenant complied.

* * *

Above the Leviathan

"Burst missile, brace for impact," 2 screamed over the radio. As 13 complied, he realized two things; one: the enemy sub had only launched one burst missile, and two: it was beginning to submerge. It looked like it had had enough combat for today, he could certainly relate. But that missile didn't stop right above it, like the others did. This one was heading straight for the coast. _Oh, sweet merciful Hell,_ 13 thought to himself.

* * *

Sihu Air Base.

The other guerillas had arrived home sooner then expected. As Sergeant Croc's assault rifle fired into the main entrance of the camp, several helicopters also came in to provide fire support and extract the team. Several Eurocopters immediately began unloading their auto cannons into the mass of enemy troops, and Croc could make out the distinctive sound of technicals exploding. With the guerillas sufficiently suppressed, his team immediately dragged the captured "general" into a nearby chopper, ready for extraction.

After he was secured, Cutty pulled himself into the chopper, standing guard over the captive while he would be taken back for processing. Waving his friend off, he ran with Pierce, Wilson, and Wintergreen to another chopper waiting to extract the few remaining team members on the ground.

"Another day at the office, huh?" Croc joked as Wintergreen pulled him up. The operation, from his angle, had been a success. Eighteen dead guerillas, one captive leader, and only three wounded from his end. Still, a lot of irregular noises had permeated since his team touched the ground. For all the grief he had given him, he couldn't imagine McCurtis having such a hard time with this rabble of sops. As the chopper took off, he saw a beautiful sight. The camp was practically up in flames, though Mother Nature was doing her best to clean up the mess, and further up the camp, the guerillas were fleeing, dropping their weapons and trying to disappear into the jungle. Croc smiled a toothy grin as he began resting his head against his seat. Before he closed his eyes, he saw a faint glow begin to approach the camp, which was steadily growing larger.

"Missile! Everyone, brace yourselves!" Pierce yelled. No sooner then he called out then the projectile began to explode. Almost immediately, Croc felt the force begin coursing though this entire body, like an electrical shock. The chopper felt it too, as it began to spin out uncontrollably. Finally, there was that noise. That awful, terrible noise, that sounded like the end of the world itself. For a moment, expending the last of his energy holding on for dear life, Croc blacked out.

A moment later, he woke up with the sound of a steady rotor still continuing to spin.

"Croc, you still breathing?" a voice of a concerned Wintergreen asked as he shook him awake. Opening his eyes, Croc looked around the chopper. Everyone looked alive and intact. Thank God.

Then he had to peek out, and he could not believe what he saw. Of the roughly dozen choppers that had come to provide support for the extraction team, eight had been crashed into the ground, their wreckages burning. Among them was the chopper the prisoner had been loaded in, Cutty and all.

**Author's note: I have a question. If one reads a fic where Mobius One is also Blaze from AC5, or a girl, or related to other protagonists, does one complain? No? Didn't think so, because that's how fan fiction works. If people are just going to keep complaining about deliberately hazy lore, then I don't see why I should continue.**


End file.
